


heaven is a place on earth

by InterestingName



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Mary Doesn't Exist, Ghosts, Ignores S3, M/M, Post-Reichenbach, Supernatural - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-19
Updated: 2016-10-19
Packaged: 2018-08-23 08:57:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8321809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InterestingName/pseuds/InterestingName
Summary: Sherlock dies for his friend, his best friend. Afterwards, he has to make sure John keeps on living. WIP.





	

**Author's Note:**

> WIP, probably always will be.

If asked, he will proudly call himself a genius, the smartest person in the room and possibly in this country. But even Sherlock Holmes couldn't figure a way out of this one.

John, Lestrade, Mrs Hudson - all dead if he doesn't do what Moriarty has just asked of him. And while he's often thought of as a selfish man, he'd rather die than have his only friends killed. Maybe that itself is the selfish part.

His only regret is that he never told John the truth. He almost did, in the end. 

Looking down at John, barely one-hundred meters away but ten stories down, he almost told him. "John, I-" He'd said. 

All John had said was "Sherlock,  _ no _ . Don't do this."

Of course, John had meant that Sherlock shouldn't throw himself off Saint Bart's, but his statement only cemented the idea in Sherlock's mind - if John never knew he was in love with him, John would be able to move on easier. Sherlock's really only doing him a favour. It’s logical.

With that, he said his goodbyes and fell.

* * *

 

Death was not something Sherlock had ever  _ wondered  _ about - from a young age, he knew what would happen on the 'other side': nothing. Death was an empty oblivion that no-one would ever experience, because they'd have no consciousness.

He was baptised, at his maternal Grandfather’s request. He himself had performed the ceremony - sprinkling the holy water over his curls. He doesn’t remember any of it, but his Grandfather told him about it, many times. 

He died at the age of.. eighty-nine, was it? Sherlock hardly remembers it, tries to delete the memories. A scared man on his deathbed, gripping his hand, telling him about his new Grandson’s christening. “His name.. his name is Sherlock,” His Grandfather says. “A peculiar name, I’ll give you that, but that’s my girl for you. She’s always been odd. I’m sure he’ll grow up to be a genius, just like her. His brother’s called Mycroft, barely seven years old but already smarter than I am. An utter ponce, too.”

He doesn’t believe in Heaven, but that was the only time Sherlock pretended to. Twenty years old, telling this dying man he’ll go to Heaven. He didn’t, of course. His body decayed around him as his brain disintegrated, before it finally gave out and he surrendered to the darkness of death. But Sherlock pretended.

* * *

 

When Sherlock, for lack of better word..  _ splat!  _ onto the footpath, he expected nothing. He expected to close his eyes as he neared the ground, and never open them again. He expected his heart to stop in his chest, to suddenly feel nothing.

That’s not what happened. His heart failed mid-air (no wonder he always used his brain, instead) and his empty corpse bloodied the ground. His eyes shut, his body - not that he could use it - was limp.

And then he saw everything. In the blink of an eye, he saw stars and bright lights, flashing strobes of all the colours of the rainbow and more. He saw the universe, more than he’d ever seen in his telescope or the Internet, more than any astronaut had ever seen. Like he’s flying through space, like time isn’t a concept. Humming in his ears, silence so loud it hurts with its’ volume. It feels like a second, yet it never stops. He can’t feel his chest, yet his throat clenches with anxiety. It’s- this  _ shouldn’t be happening!  _ It’s  _ impossible _ . 

Many things are impossible, but still exist. Sherlock read a storybook to himself, as a child, that spoke of seven impossible things before breakfast. Deleted as soon as he learned how, quotes of childhood memories a waste of space. But in this ever expanding universe of light and sound, nothing is deleted. His mind has no limitations, instead deleted memories are shoved to the back of infinity. Doors open in the mind palace, halls longer and larger than ever before. 

Before he can properly adjust himself to the lights, the sound, the feeling of his mind expanding, it all stops. His mind suffers whiplash, his corporeal body no longer there. He’s standing in their living room, at Baker Street. Unlit, the only light coming from the street lamps. Shadows are cast, half illuminating the mess Sherlock calls home. Called, called. He wonders if he should have believed, if death was standing in your own home. Perhaps Heaven and Hell is real, and he's in Purgatory. Purgatory is being paralyzed, stock still watching your regrets.

The door opens with a shuffle, slow without the shove it needs to swing open. John - it must be John - puts his hand to the door, sliding his wrist through to reveal his regular woolen jumper. It is him, no one else wears such hideous attire. The last time Sherlock saw him, he was wearing a hideous brown one that only he could wear. He seemed mildly ridiculous, but pulled it off more than anyone else could. It matched the tan that hadn't faded, from his time abroad in Afghanistan. 

John managed to shove the door with his lackluster state. Maybe this was Sherlock, watching his memories? A mind palace revamp, an evaluation. Or maybe this was Hell, seeing John without being able to touch him. 

John was carrying a plastic shopping bag, generic branding on the side. Through the thin plastic, Sherlock could see more branding, Jack Daniels. His mind doesn't remember labels well, but he can infer that John has bought alcohol. It clinks when John drops it on the floor, glass onto wood. The clink shocks his ears, the first sound he's heard. John doesn't say anything, just treds over to the kitchen. He grabs a glass out of the top cupboard, where Sherlock placed them for his own amusement. The cupboard is just above John's reach, making it an inconvenience but not an impossibility to get to. 

He doesn't hold the glass tight, lets it dangle precariously from his fingertips. He sits in his own chair, a crinkle as he sits on a crisp packet. He shuffles in discomfort, before shoving it down the side of the chair under the seat. He tries to turn for his shopping bag, sat just out of reach on the floor. Sherlock goes to hand it to him, bending down and trying to brush the plastic handle. His fingertips just grace it, pushing it slightly like a breeze. He can't grasp it though, his fingers almost touching each time.

Sherlock knows, deep down, that he cannot hand it to John. He can't help his friend, not even to hand him a bag. Stepping closer takes effort, his mind working hard to take each step. Trying to rest his hand on John's chair partially works, getting close enough to John's head that he could stroke his hair. John's head is bowed, needing touch that is not there. So instead, Sherlock hovers behind him.


End file.
